That Someday Is Today
by EmilyFuckingFitch
Summary: 887,862. That's how many simulations She ran, the Machine whispers in her ear. Root/Shaw
1. Chapter 1

887,862.

That's how many simulations She ran, the Machine whispers in her ear.

Root knows this, hears the Machine whisper it in her ear again and again, along with Shaw's current, dwindling survival rate, and the survival rate of Harold, Reese, Fusco, and herself had She not chosen this course of action. And at the heart of all this data, Root knows that this was the Machine's way of justifying Her actions and Her decision to choose this plan.

No lives are worth more than others, Root can imagine Her say, Her words breathing life as she realizes what She had made them do: Save four lives, even though that meant they had to lose one.

Root _knows _why the Machine did it—this was what the Machine had taught her to do too, to value each human life. But right now, all Root could hear were the gunshots, the finality of each bullet like nails on a coffin. She sees the bullets pierce through Sameen's abdomen, see her blood splatter on the floor and on her black t-shirt.

_2.98% asset survival rate._

_31.1% analog interface survival rate._

Her chest feels heavy, weighted down like an anchor. She wants to _do _something. Something to stop the blood loss from Shaw's wounds, keep her away from the gunshots, carry her to a place where they won't hurt her anymore. _Something_ to save Shaw.

But the latch is locked, and the gunshots are coming closer, and Shaw is now lying on the floor, barely breathing. And all the Machine keeps telling her is their survival rates but nothing of consequence, nothing that actually matters: Nothing on how to save Shaw.

Root slams on the metal screen and screams.

_1.04% asset survival rate._

_40.3% analog interface survival rate._

"Finch, press the button!" Fusco yells.

_0.98% asset survival rate._

_45.5% analog interface survival rate._

The metal doors groan as they begin to close. She yells again—she doesn't know what—punches the screen futilely, and then she feels a pair of arms grip her waist, pulling her backwards.

"Root," Fusco says, his voice low and calm, as though he's afraid that Root is on the verge of breaking. "She can't be saved." She thinks what Fusco really means is, She can't save her, but that he doesn't have the courage to admit it aloud.

_0.57% asset survival rate._

_47.2% analog interface survival rate._

"Stop it!" She bites out, looking straight toward the camera in the corner of the elevator. The Machine's voice used to soothe her, reassure her that the Machine was always with her and would protect her. A voice that belonged to someone who would never let her down, in return for her unfailing loyalty.

But now all she can hear is how broken the Machine's voice sounds in her ear, like a parent unable to console her own child. She closes her eyes, wanting this voice to be someone else's, wishes it to be Shaw's—instead of Her's and her reminding Root of the clock winding down to Shaw's imminent death.

"Now's not the time to be in an argument with the Machine, Ms. Groves," Finch tells her, his face etched with residual fear and loss.

_0.3% asset survival rate._

_50.2% analog interface survival rate._

"We have to go back," Reese breathes heavily, his hands on his bullet wound, trying to put pressure on it.

Finch shakes his head. "We can't risk any more lives, Mr. Reese. Ms. Groves, what's the next step of the plan?"

The Machine buzzes in her ear, telling her the next steps of the escape plan.

Root clenches her hands. "Once the door opens, you head straight and turn to the left corridor. There's a vent on the wall that leads to the outside of the building," she says blankly.

"Any Samaritans?"

"They've surrounded the front entrances. None of them have reached our side yet. You've got three minutes to get to the vent before they do."

The elevator slows to a stop, and the metal doors open.

_0.25% asset survival rate._

_51.65% analog interface survival rate._

Fusco warily lets go of her. "Alright, Finch. I've got his right side. Grab onto his left."

They pull Reese up and drag him forwards, rushing, but Root is trailing slowly behind them.

Fusco notices and tries to turn his head toward Root, but because he's carrying Reese, he's unsuccessful at doing so. "Root, we've got to move. Let's go!"

Root shakes her head and starts walking backwards towards the elevator. "Two and a half minutes, boys. Good luck."

Finch stops walking, and moves so that they're all facing Root. "Ms. Groves! This wasn't what Ms. Shaw died for!" Finch yells.

"She wasn't supposed to die at all, Harry," Root grits out, running towards the elevator. She presses the basement button harshly and rapidly before any of them can stop the elevator.

"Ms. Groves!" He puts Reese down against the wall.

The doors begin to close.

"Sorry, Harold." Root smiles sadly at him. "Take care of Bear for us."

She points at her imaginary watch on her wrist. "Two minutes."

"Ms. Gro—"

She doesn't hear the rest of his words, because the elevator shaft begins moving downwards, where they'd all just been two minutes ago.

_0.04% asset survival rate._

_20.2% analog interface survival rate._

The first time Root heard of the Machine, she remembered how she felt. How she thought that, after all these years of wandering and running and feeling so lost, _finally, _she had a purpose in life. Something to live for. To keep going.

_Do not enter basement. Head back. _

And the first time she heard Her and became Her Analog Interface, she remembered how safe she felt. How, for the first time, she didn't feel so lonely. Root knew that being Her Analog Interface meant that she was risking her life, and that one of her missions would eventually be her last. But she was at peace with it. To her, the Machine was something that she would gladly die for. The Machine had given her everything she'd hoped for. Everything she'd ever wanted.

0% _analog interface survival rate if enter. Head back. _

But now, Root realizes, there was really only one thing she wanted—one _person _she wanted alive. The one other person she cared about in her life, and the Machine couldn't save her.

So maybe, maybe the Machine isn't worth dying for after all.

0_.01% asset survival rate._

_3.0% analog interface survival rate._

_I am sorry, _a robotic voice husks stiltedly in her ear, a voice trying to mimic Shaw's.

If she's going to die for something, she's going to die for something that made her live. For something that kept her going.

Not for bad code.

For something worth dying for.

_Primary Asset lost._

_Analog Interface lost._


	2. Chapter 2

_Unwanted Outcome._

_Recalibrating..._

"Do you think, at the end of all this—of Samaritan, and Decima, and Greer…"

Root hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out how to best phrase what she wants to ask.

She starts again, her voice shaky despite her efforts to calm it. "Do you think we'll make it out alive, Sameen?" Root tilts her head up then, her head still on Shaw's chest, her hand brushing Shaw's hair lightly. She looks at Shaw expectantly.

Shaw groans, tired, her eyes still closed. "Wouldn't your Machine know the answer to that?"

Root purses her lips. After she and Finch had encrypted the security monitors so that She would have visual access of the building, they had decided to hold off on breaking in to the basement of the building so that the Machine could thoroughly assess all the possible courses of action for them. Although Finch thought it was unwise—in his exact words, "The longer we wait, Ms. Groves, the more chaos Samaritan inflicts upon the world"—the Machine didn't want to risk losing any of her human assets.

And as Root and Finch exited the building, it was then that Root had asked her of the best possible odds of survival, for each one of them. The Machine had hesitated, telling her that She was still assessing. That evening, though, as Root was walking to the subway station to get to Shaw, the Machine told her. She wasn't done assessing all of her choices, She cautioned, but most of the options that She had gone through had a survival rate of 0% for their entire team.

And out of all of the options that She had gone through, all of them had a survival rate of 0% for Shaw.

Root clenches her other hand that was on Shaw's waist. She doesn't like those odds at all, doesn't want to think about that possibility. If neither of them were to live, or worse, if only she gets to live but Shaw doesn't.

"I'm asking you," Root murmurs.

Shaw frowns, opens one of her eyes to look at Root. "Why don't you ask your Machine?"

She stops running her hand through Shaw's hair and shakes her head. "But I'm asking you," Root pushes.

Feeling the loss of contact from Root's hand, she opens both her eyes, and looks at the ceiling. For a while, Shaw doesn't talk, just stares. Root thinks that Shaw isn't going to answer at all.

But then Shaw opens her mouth, and then closes it.

After another moment of hesitation, Shaw shrugs. "I don't know, Root," she whispers, attempting to come off as nonchalant. But Root could tell from Shaw's tightened grip on the back of her shirt that Shaw was feeling uneasy. Whether because of the fact that she's unsure of their future, or because of the possibility that they may not all survive, Root's not sure.

Root shifts closer to Shaw, her breath ghosting Shaw's neck as she resumes running her hand through Shaw's hair.

"Okay," Root breathes. She doesn't push Shaw any further, deciding that she's heard enough predictions for the day. She feels worn out, especially after having asked Her about the best scenario She had come up for them so far. For better or worse, the Machine had acquiesced and had described to her of it, of Reese being shot, of the elevator needing to be overridden, of Shaw heroically, _stupidly—_bravely, locking on the latch and running into the gunfire to press the override button, and of Root nearly escaping, but ultimately returning to the basement. The Machine doesn't tell her why Root had done that in Her simulation. She tells her that She doesn't know, that certain variables have been and would always remain as variables.

And at this particular moment, Root is fine with that uncertainty. Right now, she's content with just being here with Shaw, existing. Of living a life in which she could believe that the world isn't ending, that moments with Shaw weren't limited, and that their days weren't numbered.

Shaw's hand on her back begins to draw patterns on Root's skin that was exposed, between her black t-shirt and her jeans. She moves to see Root's face clearer.

Root, puzzled at Shaw's sudden act of affection, looks up, and sees Shaw's frustration written all over her face. But in her eyes, deep and murky and warm, she sees traces of fear.

"What's wrong, Sameen?"

Shaw looks away, as though she's contemplating of whether or not to tell Root the truth, or drop the conversation. But Root waits patiently, trying to soothe Shaw's anxiety by running her fingers through Shaw's hair.

After a few moments, eventually, Shaw relents.

"When it comes down to it," Shaw says, "the only thing I'm good at is protecting." She puts her other hand on top of Root's hand, the one that's running through her hair, to stop her.

"But lately," Shaw begins to confess, turning her head to face Root's, her eyes softening. "I haven't been good at that."

Root smiles sadly at her, turns her hand to grip Shaw's lightly. "Trust me, I know the feeling."

Shaw scrunches her eyebrows and frowns. "No, you don't, Root." She shakes her head, as though she's trying to figure out how to express what she wants to say, but can't find the words. She lets out a frustrated groan and entangles one of Root's legs with her own, grabs onto Root's waist and flips them so that Root's beneath her. She puts her hands near both sides of Root's face, and lowers herself down.

Shaw looks into Root's eyes, her eyebrows furrowed, as though Shaw's searching for something, but doesn't quite know what. She's digging, searching, and Root suddenly feels vulnerable, exposed. But despite how uncomfortable she's feeling, Root doesn't look away from Shaw, determined to let Shaw find what she wants, what she needs from her.

Whether Shaw found it or not, Root doesn't know, but Shaw's hard features melts into something soft. Something tender.

Shaw brushes Root's hair away from her face. "All my life, I've always done the protecting," Shaw breathes, her lips touching Root's with every word she speaks. "I'm _good_at protecting."

Shaw pauses. "But now," she says, pushing herself up to look at Root, her eyes begging Root to understand. "I can't protect us," her voice low, tinged with worry. "Any of you."

"Right, Sameen," Root says slowly, still not quite getting what Shaw means. "But you're not Her," she reasons, trying to ease the frustration that's written all over Shaw's face. "We don't expect you to be able to protect all of us. That's Her job."

It doesn't work. Shaw's face contorts in exasperation, and she huffs, annoyed. "Nevermind," Shaw mumbles, and starts to move off of Root.

"Wait," Root rushes, her hands on Shaw's waist to keep her in her position. Shaw stays where she is on top of her, but doesn't look at her. Root tries looking for clues on Shaw's face, to decode the conversation they just had, looking for something she'd missed, something that she's not getting.

They were talking about their survival rates, and then Shaw started talking about her ability to protect, and how it's not enough anymore—but trying to convey to her that she's _good_at protecting.

Root frowned. Were they still talking about survival rates?

"Sameen," Root says softly, moves one of her hands from Shaw's waist to her face, trying to get Shaw to look at her. "It won't be on you, you know. If some of us don't make it."

Shaw turns her face, then, her eyes stormy and angry, and she kisses Root roughly.

"If I can't save any of you," Shaw rumbles, biting Root's lower lip harshly before pulling back. "If I can't save any of you," she says again, her voice distraught, "then how good are our chances, Root?"

Root doesn't know if she meant their chances or the team's, but she kisses Shaw hurriedly anyway, silencing her. She doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to think about it.

"The Machine will think of something," Root says between kisses, trying to placate her. "She always does, she'll always watch over us." Root doesn't know who she's trying to convince anymore, doesn't know if she's trying to reassure Shaw, or herself. Whichever the case, she doesn't want Shaw to talk anymore. She doesn't to break what they have. Not now, not tonight.

Tonight, they were just Sameen Grey and Samantha Thomas, and that has to be enough.

It has to be.

But Shaw doesn't accept her answer. She grabs onto Root's shoulders and pushes her back on the bed. "Sometimes She can't, Root," she insists, her voice harsh, but certain. "Sometimes She can't save everyone. Like Carter."

Root quirks her eyebrow. "Who's Carter?" Although she was directing the question to Shaw, she finds the Machine answering her as well.

_Lost Primary Asset. Time of Death: 10:52p.m. November 30, 2013._

Shaw grimaces. "She was a friend of mine," she says, visibly uncomfortable of where their conversation has headed, and moves her hands to grip both of Root's wrists. "She was damn good with a gun. A good shot."

She moves Root's hands toward the headboard, her left hand locking both of Root's. "She died trying to bring down HR," Shaw continues, shifting to sit up and straddle Root's waist.

"You know how she died?" Shaw's grip on Root's wrists tighten.

Root shakes her head.

"She died by the hands of a dirty cop, Root," Shaw tells her, pushing Root's wrists against the headboard roughly. Root gasps at the sudden pain shooting through her wrists. "She died and the Machine couldn't save her," she says, pushing again, harder.

Root groans, her mind hazy from the burning pain in her wrists, and the pleasure of feeling that pain. She doesn't know whether Shaw's taking her frustration toward the Machine out on Root, or if she's doing it to get Root to pay attention and hear what Shaw's saying. Maybe both.

Eventually, Root grits out, "What happened to the cop?"

Shaw loosens her hold, her other hand moving to Root's collarbone. "He died."

"By your hand?" Root expects her to say yes, but Shaw's answer surprises her.

"No," Shaw admits, her fingertips lightly brushing Root's collarbone, almost reverently—a stark contrast to her hold on Root's wrists. "By a guy in the mafia."

"Oh," Root breathes. She doesn't say anything else. She's not sure how else to respond to that.

But Shaw doesn't notice. She releases Root's wrists, and places both her hands on Root's neck, cradling her head.

"I won't make that mistake again," Shaw tells her, defiantly, her breath hot on her skin.

"If any of you go down," Shaw continues, her eyes resolute, "I'll be guns blazing, and I'm taking as many of them down with me."

Root wants to argue, to tell her that that's just _stupid._That the war cannot be won if they fight carelessly in the battles. _The bigger picture,_Root wants to remind her. There were more lives at risk than just theirs.

But, more selfishly, Root knows that she wants to argue because she desperately doesn't want what Shaw's telling her, to happen. She doesn't want Shaw to run into the gunfire and risk death for any of them. Shaw can't die. Not as her cover, not in this lifetime, not in any lifetimes.

And she knows this goes against what the Machine has told her—has _taught_her—over and over again, but to Root, without a doubt or hesitation, she still believes some lives are worth more than others.

And in this case, she would tell Her that Shaw's life is worth more than any of theirs, would beg for Her to pick an option in which Shaw has the best chance of surviving, even at the risk of lowering the rest of their team's survival rate. Whether or not She would listen, Root doesn't know. Root guesses that She wouldn't and would scold her for being impractical.

She doesn't expect Her to understand. At the end of the day, She—her almighty God—was built upon code. Even though She had learned to care, she would never be able to feel and understand what it was truly like to be human, because emotions were things that could never be translated into data. Something unequivocally and irrevocably human.

Knowing that convincing Shaw would only waste her breath, and knowing that the Machine wouldn't do what she wanted Her to do, Root settles on saying something else. She knows that Shaw would never admit what she was feeling aloud, whatever _this_was aloud. Perhaps Shaw wouldn't even admit it on her dying breath.

So instead, she smiles—a smile not quite reaching her eyes—and asks sweetly:

"Even for Bear?"

Shaw rolls her eyes at her, but her lips betray her attempt to look annoyed, curving upwards slightly.

"_Especially_ for Bear," Shaw says with conviction, looking into Root's eyes earnestly as she says it. And in that moment, Root wonders if Shaw meant something else entirely, like this was her way of telling Root that she cared for her, the only way Shaw knew how.

If this was the closest she'll get to a confession, then so be it.

Root smiles again, and this time, it reaches her eyes. "Okay," Root nods, her chest expanding, feeling as though it was going to burst.

"Good," Shaw says with finality, effectively ending their conversation, and leans down to place a soft kiss on Root's lips. Moaning in approval, she tries to deepen it, but Shaw pulls away, smirking.

"You've been up for the past two days. You need some sleep," Shaw tells her, before resting her head on Root's chest.

Root looks up at the ceiling. Maybe what they had was enough, Root thinks. Maybe they'll all make it out okay.

Feeling Shaw's breath beginning to even on her neck, Root believes Shaw fell asleep on her chest. And in the silence of the dark, Root asks again:

"Do you think we'll make it out alive?"

_Assessment: Ongoing._

_Based on 887, 862 assessed options:_

_Finch. 2.97% admin survival rate._

Shaw lets out a small groan, and Root feels the vibrations on her neck. She mumbles, "Didn't I just answer that?"

_Reese. 1.84% primary asset survival rate._

"You startled me, Sameen," Root chides, her grip on Shaw's waist tightening for a second, before loosening. She shakes her head, but doesn't look at Shaw. "And I wasn't asking you this time."

_Fusco. 2.02% secondary asset survival rate._

"Oh," Shaw breathes. She lifts her head up to see Root's face, trying to read Root's reaction to decipher whether or not the Machine thinks their odds were good.

_Shaw. 0% secondary asset survival rate._

Root freezes.

Frowning, Shaw asks, concerned, "Root?"

_Root. 0% analog interface survival rate._

Root relaxes, smiling, and closes her eyes.

"Yeah?"

Even with her eyes closed, she can tell that Shaw's rolling her eyes.

"Whatever," she hears Shaw say, and feels her resting her head on Root's chest again. "Go to sleep, dumbass."

"Okay," Root breathes.

Tonight, they were just Sameen Shaw and Samantha Groves.

And if Root were being completely honest?

That was more than enough for her.


	3. Chapter 3

This is it, Root thinks.

This is where her story's going to end.

She's running through the hallway, with Reese, Finch, and Fusco following closely behind her. They'd just finished successfully installing the software, and are now trying to get to the elevator shaft with Her guidance. The Machine is whispering in her ear, of what to do, and where to go, but for the first time since hearing Her voice, Root doesn't really listen to her. Thinks she doesn't need it. Root had memorized the plan forwards and backwards since She'd first described it to her two days ago, and she knows how this plan ends.

After all, this plan, this option She'd selected—the one in which, according to Her, had the most optimal outcome—was the same one that would inevitably have Shaw lying on the same floors that Root's heels are currently clicking on, dying, and Root laying beside her, suffering the same fate.

Root doesn't ask how She'd come to think that this option would produce the most optimal outcome, finding comfort in the fact that, at least in this option, where Shaw will go, Root will follow her. And with her clock winding down to its last minutes, Root lets herself believe that maybe, maybe that's why the Machine chose it, why it had—what She considered to be—the most favorable outcome.

It still doesn't take away the bitter taste that imminent death leaves in her mouth, though.

"This way," Root directs them, before the Machine has the chance to instruct her.

_7 Operatives._

_Left._

"I know," Root says, her voice sounding annoyed. Root knows what happens. The Machine has told her all of this already.

"What is it, Ms. Groves?" Finch asks.

She turns to face him as she reloads her gun. "Samaritan Operatives to our left. Seven of them. We can't get to the elevator until they're down," Root informs as they slow to a stop, reaching the intersection of the hallway.

Root takes a deep breath.

This is it.

She smiles at them, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hope you like the sound of fireworks, boys," she says teasingly, before turning to the hallway on their left, and starts shooting fearlessly with both her guns, almost recklessly. She takes three of them down within the first five seconds.

Taking her lead, Fusco and Reese shoot at the Operatives. While they manage to take another two down, they retreat to take cover at the wall as the remaining Operatives begin shooting back with the same amount of vigor.

"I'm running out of bullets!" Fusco yells over the sound of gunshots.

"Here," Reese says behind her, hears him take out a magazine full of bullets from his pocket and passes it to Fusco.

Root frowns. That wasn't part of the simulation She had told her about.

Had she forgotten something?

"Thanks," Fusco says, dropping his empty magazine and reloading his gun with the one Reese gave him.

Root fires another round of shots, taking the last two Operatives out. They groan, falling to the floor.

"Are there any more, Root?" Reese asks, his tone grave.

She stops herself from rolling her eyes. They're currently in a building, highly guarded by Samaritan Operatives. Of course there are more, she thinks. There will always be more of their Operatives than there would be of Hers, and they'll always be closing in on them, tracking down their location at a moment's notice.

_Harold._

_Imminent danger._

_2 Samaritan Operatives._

_Save Harold._

Root looks at Finch. "Don't move, Harold," Root warns, peaking out from their side of the hallway. An Operative comes out from the other corridor, taking aim at them, but Root manages to shoot him first, bringing him down. She sees the second Operative reloading his gun, and presses the triggers of her two guns. But instead of hearing gunshots and feeling the recoil on the palm of her hands, she hears hollow clicks and feels no resistance.

She's out of ammo.

She looks at the Operative, sees that he's finished reloading, and realizes that neither Fusco nor Reese is going to shoot him in time—not in time to prevent him from pulling his trigger. Running on automatic, she moves toward Finch to block the trajectory of the incoming bullet.

She hears two gunshots, but feels the burn of one, running through her back shoulder, ripping through skin and tissue, before exiting through the front and into the wall, narrowly missing Finch.

"Ms. Groves," Harold says, his voice full of fear and concern. He grabs hold of her, trying to keep her upright. "Are you alright?"

"Just peachy, Harold," Root grits, trying to smile through the pain, but it comes out as a grimace instead.

Leaning on Finch, she takes out two magazines from her pockets, tries to reload them into her guns, but struggles, partly due to her vision blurring, and partly due to the dizziness she was experiencing—probably from the pain, Root guesses. Frustrated, Root hands Finch both of her guns, as well as the two magazines, before using her right hand to keep pressure on her left shoulder, moving towards the wall.

"Reload those for me will you, Harold?"

Finch, with a deer-in-headlights expression, nods, and immediately does what she asks.

Root tries to lean against the wall with her good shoulder, closes her eyes to catch her breath while Finch reloads her guns. When she opens her eyes again, she somehow finds herself sitting on the cool cement floor, her back leaning against the wall for support. She looks down to see her right hand on her shoulder, covered in her own blood.

Down to the last sand grains, Root thinks, as it becomes harder for her to breathe. She raises her head, tries to scan her surroundings for any signs of Shaw, her eyes moving lazily. The simulation had promised her death to be with Shaw. If her final page is being written here, then Shaw shouldn't be too far from her now.

"Root?"

Root's eyes widen at the sound of Shaw's voice, bringing her awareness like cold water running down her back. Her eyes search more rapidly for Shaw, but she's unable to locate her.

Root frowns. "I don't see you, Shaw."

"Of course you can't, dumbass. You called me."

"Oh," she says in realization, now noticing that she could only hear Shaw from her right ear. Root wonders why She'd chosen to contact Shaw on her behalf, as though She wanted to let Root tell Shaw her last words. She wonders why She'd chosen now to contact Shaw—unless something in their plan had changed.

She glances at Reese. In Her simulation, he was shot in the back by Samaritan Operatives, but currently, standing in front of her, he was relatively unscathed.

Root frowns.

"Was this the variable you were talking about?" Root asks aloud, her breathing ragged. She intended for the question to be for Her, but finds Shaw answering her instead.

"Jeez, Root, could you not breathe so hard when you're talking? Now's not the time for your weird phone sex crap."

She smirks weakly, even though Shaw couldn't see it.

"You didn't think it was weird last night, Sameen," Root purrs, with as much flirtatiousness as she could muster.

In the corner of her eye, she sees Fusco and Finch shift uncomfortably, suddenly deeply engrossed with reloading their weapons. Reese, though, looks unfazed, as though he hasn't heard what she's said at all.

Root closes her eyes again. She doesn't care, whether she's making them uneasy or not. If this is her last conversation with Shaw, then she's going to make the most of it.

"Root," Shaw says in a warning tone, her voice suddenly louder than before. "We don't have time for this."

"Bit late to the party, Shaw," Root hears Fusco say.

Her eyes immediately open, finding Shaw a few feet away from her, her heels clicking towards them.

"God, you all look like crap," Shaw notes, when she finally reaches to them. Silently, Shaw scans each one of them, assessing the damages they'd sustained. When her gaze reaches Root, though, her expression shifts, tinged with worry, her eyes on the glaring wound that Root's trying to keep pressure on.

Shaw kneels down, gently removes Root's hand from her shoulder.

"Did it go through?" Shaw asks, concerned, looking for an exit wound.

Root smiles, and nods, relishing in the rare softness of Shaw's actions.

Shaw's face relaxes a bit.

"Good," Shaw says, taking off her coat and ripping off one of its sleeves roughly.

"Taking off your clothes for me, Sameen?"

Shaw ignores her comment, instead focusing on wrapping the sleeve around Root's shoulder.

"Didn't anyone teach you that you're supposed to make a tourniquet when this happens?" Shaw asks, tightening the cloth around Root's shoulder.

Of course someone did. The Machine had sent her a link on how to make a tourniquet—along with other links to survival tools—the very first day She had spoken to her. She knows how to make a tourniquet like she knows the back of her hand.

But today, she hadn't thought of doing it, after she was shot. Didn't think it would do much good. Tourniquets may prevent more blood loss, but they don't do much against her inevitable five gunshots to the abdomen.

So Root shrugs, lets a sly comment slip from her tongue.

"But I'd much rather have you playing doctor on me."

Shaw rolls her eyes, her face annoyed. Usually, Root wouldn't mind that, Shaw's irritation to her flirtation. And any other day, Root would find it endearing, and even find comfort in it. But today, all it leaves is a sticky, sinking feeling in her gut, making her feel uneasy.

_10 Operatives._

"We have an incoming wave of Samaritan Operatives," Root informs them, trying to stand up. "Ten this time."

Seeing that Root's struggling, Shaw brings Root's uninjured arm around her shoulder and pulls her up.

"Fusco and I will cover you," Reese tells them, cocking his gun. "Head to the elevator."

Shaw nods. Finch grabs the other side of Root's waist, and they try to walk as quickly to the elevator as they possibly can while carrying Root, as Reese and Fusco start shooting at the Operatives, trying to buy them time.

Once they make it to the elevator, Finch lets Root go, looking worriedly at Fusco and Reese, who were still in the line of fire. Still holding onto Root, she moves to leans them against the back of the elevator.

"You don't get to die, Root," Shaw whispers to her ear, her breath hot against her skin. "Not today."

Root turns to look at Shaw's face, alarmed. She squints, wonders if Shaw knows something she shouldn't, wonders if she knew something Root doesn't. But she doesn't find anything telling. Just a hard expression, heavy with anger, and in her eyes, dark with worry and concern.

"Press the button, Finch!" Fusco yells as he and Reese approach them. Once they reach the elevator, Finch presses the button rapidly.

The elevator doesn't move.

"What the," Finch asks incredulously.

Root looks at Shaw again, sees her thinking, assessing, searching for another escape route. And she knows even before Shaw does of what Shaw's thinking, of what she's going to say, of what she'll inevitably do.

"The override button," Shaw tells them, her voice grave but resolute. "I need to get to the override button."

Root's about to say something to try and stop her, to keep her in the elevator for a little while longer, but before Root has a chance to say anything, she feels Reese handcuffing her right wrist to Shaw's, effectively derailing her train of thought.

"Sorry, Shaw," Reese says as he finishes cuffing them. He steps away from the elevator to pull the metal screen down, locking the latch. "I've got to press the override button."

Realization dawns on Shaw's face, processing what Reese had just done.

Shaw yells, angrily, "You can't do this to me, Reese!" She moves toward the metal screen, involuntarily dragging Root roughly with her.

Root winces, but doesn't say anything.

"Get over your savior complex and let me out of these cuffs!" Shaw barks at him, punching the screen with her left hand.

Reese gives her an empty smile, shakes his head. "No can do, Shaw," he tells her, reloading his gun.

"And don't even try getting out of those," Reese says, seeing her try to find the lock on the handcuffs to pick it but finding none. "Had them specially made for you." Shaw glares at him as he nods toward the handcuffs. "Passcode protected. You'll find the code at the subway station in a small box, under the cot."

"Mr. Reese," Finch pleads. "I beg you to reconsider your course of action."

"Can't, Finch." Reese shrugs, as though what he was doing wasn't going to result in his death. "Gotta save the numbers I've been assigned."

"By the way, Root." He looks at Root. "She told me a few days ago that a King is nothing without his Queen." He tilts his head. "It was a bit cryptic, even for me, but I figured you'd understand what she means."

He turns, starts walking toward the override button. "Good luck."

"Reese!" Shaw slams her hand against the metal screen again. "Reese!"

A King is nothing without his Queen? Was she talking about chess? In chess, the Queen, arguably the strongest player, can move in any direction, be a rook or a bishop. A chameleon, becoming anything the situation calls for. Second to the King, it had the most pivotal role in shaping the result of the game. But its fate was entirely dependent on the King. If the King fell, the Queen, with nothing to protect, would have no purpose, and she too, would fall. On the other hand, the King, while strong in its own right, was always, in some way, vulnerable. Without the Queen to defend it, the King would inevitably fall, losing the entire battle.

She looks around the elevator, trying to figure out which chess piece would fit whom. Fusco would be a knight. Strong, brave, but his actions completely limited. He was bound by rules, by the law, and by his son. She would presume that Finch was the King—he plays a vital role in whether or not they succeed in the war they're in—but then Her analogy wouldn't make sense. Because Shaw would most definitely be the Queen, and while Finch would be devastated if Shaw were ever to die, he would eventually find it in himself to move on. His fate was not intertwined with Shaw's.

And then there's Root.

She thinks hard, trying to match herself to a chess piece. A rook, she wants to say. Fast and efficient, bound by the directions someone else gives her. But, like Harold, her role is also crucial to their success in the war. And unlike Harold, if Shaw were to die…

She looks at Shaw, sees the hardness of her features, the deepening frown, the chaos that looms within her dark brown eyes, and still, Root feels warmth in her chest bloom.

Root swallows hard. If Shaw ever were to die, then Root's life would effectively end with her too.

So if Shaw's the Queen, and Harold's not the King, then that would make Root—

Root's eyes widen in realization.

She couldn't have meant that, Root thinks. She couldn't have meant that, because if She did, then that would mean that Reese wasn't the variable. It would mean that She had planned all of this from the start, foresaw Root being shot instead of Reese, and him cuffing her and Shaw together, and him running to push the override button instead of Shaw—all in the effort to save her and Shaw, above all else.

And if She really did plan all of this?

Root looks at Shaw, worried.

Shaw would never forgive Her, or Root.

"That idiot!" Shaw yells in frustration, as the metal doors close. She frantically slams their handcuffs against the elevator wall, trying to break them. But all it really does is batter Root's hand against the wall, painfully.

70% Steel.

"You can't break it with force, Sameen," Root informs her. "She says it's mostly made of steel."

Shaw looks at Root, her eyes stormy. She clenches her hands, knuckles white.

"A little help from your God to get out of these would be great right now."

Root feels the elevator begin to move, and she nods.

_Accessing passcode._

_Unable to retrieve._

Root frowns.

Odd.

"She can't get the passcode."

Shaw groans in frustration.

"I need to get back down there," Shaw tells them, her voice sounding angry, but certain.

"Sameen," Root warns her. "If you go, I go."

Shaw looks sharply at Root.

"Not gonna happen, Root. The Machine needs you," Shaw reminds her, before pointing to the closed metal doors. "And he needs me."

Root doesn't really know what makes her say it, what makes her tell Shaw the truth, but the words find themselves at the back of her throat, and before she can stop them, she hears herself say:

"Well, I need you."

Root's eyes widen, and so do Shaw's.

"And besides," Root adds quickly, trying to bring lightness to the situation. "We don't have much of a choice, Sameen," Root says, raising her right arm to remind Shaw of their current situation.

Shaw's face contorts, obviously conflicted of what she wants to do.

The elevator slows to a stop, and the metal doors open.

"What's it going to be, Sameen?"

Shaw shakes her head and lets out a sigh, her expression darkening. Eventually, she looks at Root and huffs out, "What's our escape route, Root?"

Root's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She hadn't expected Shaw to say that. She'd expected her to go back to the basement, and die to avenge Reese, even if it meant bringing Root with her. That's what Shaw had told her she'd do, if any of this were to happen...that she'd bring as many of them down with her.

_Straight._

_Left corridor._

_Stairs._

Root looks at Shaw, sees her staring at her expectantly, waiting for the next commands, and Root wonders if she should tell her what She has done. She wonders if Shaw would still go back to Reese if Root tells her, and die by his side, or stay with her and help them escape, to live another day. Is honoring Shaw's wishes worth risking Shaw's life? Or should Root withhold this information from her to protect Shaw and keep her safe—even if it inevitably means that Shaw's resent her and the Machine while she's still alive?

"Well?" Shaw asks, irritation heavy in her voice.

Root bites her lip. She hopes she doesn't live to regret this.

"We head straight, and turn left at the first corridor."

* * *

><p>Two days ago.<p>

_Assessing assets…_

_Fusco: Constant._

_Reese: Constant._

_Finch: Constant._

_Root: Variable._

_Shaw: Variable._

_Minimizing variability._

_Assessing assets..._

_Fusco: Constant._

_Reese: Constant._

_Finch: Constant._

_Root and Shaw: Constant._

_Filtering options with constants._

_Evaluating optimal options..._

_Option 1:_

_Finch. 2.97% admin survival rate._

_Reese. 1.84% primary asset survival rate._

_Fusco. 2.02% secondary asset survival rate._

_Shaw. 0% primary asset survival rate._

_Root. 0% analog interface survival rate._

_Option 2:_

_Finch. 2.09% admin survival rate._

_Reese. 0% primary asset survival rate._

_Fusco. 1.76% secondary asset survival rate._

_Shaw. 1.02% primary asset survival rate._

_Root. 1.02% analog interface survival rate._

_Contacting primary asset…_

_John Reese._


End file.
